Garden Gossip

It was mid morning, and I was out in the garden playing coffee vendor to Husband and the dear Dog (he gets a biccie).

On my way back in I was waylaid in the garden (as usual - a weed here, an overabundance of sunflowers there). Once I am bent over tending to weeds I have no concept of time, - just pure enjoyment and devilish satisfaction!

Miss Callie, the cat, lay at my feet, drowsing with one eye partly open, just in case. All seemed quiet until I became conscious of a small bevy of rosy breasted finches chittering and floating around some seeds that had escaped from the bird feeder above them when the wind blew the top off it. I stopped to watch, delighted with the way they swooped and rose, all the while chattering to each other.

While I stood watching and listening a gorgeous butterfly flew around me and landed on the beautiful red Europa rose.


Did I have my camera? Of course not, - but the butterfly seemed to be resting and I took a chance on creeping back to the house for it - when I returned he had not moved!
After about five minutes he stirred himself, flew to a neighbouring peony, and began to feed vigorously. Well, I guess that's what he was doing... The peonies are not doing well this year, - did I plant them too deeply when we brought them from the Lost Garden?














Continuing along the garden path, (which I noted was sprouting all sorts of weeds and was badly in need of more mulch) I spied two large bumble bees visiting amongst the delphinium.

I suppose one might call this the Delphinium Cafe and Delicatessan, catering to butterflies, bees and the occasional humming bird (oh, not likely, - wrong colour) With camera in hand I continued taking pictures, noting that the first shasta daisy has opened its petals, and that the perennial sweet peas are forming buds. These sweet peas are descended from the ones that Husband's mother started in 1918. on the original orchard that his grandfather planted on the Penticton Upper Bench.

Watch for pictures, - glorious pinks and mauves and whites.....

The Abraham Darby rose has some particularly beautiful emerging buds... and at that time of the morning the blue flax was still enjoying the early sunshine. Soon after noon they have all closed shop and spend the afternoon preparing for next morning's splendid display.















The Oriental Poppies did not fare well in this week's wind and rain, and some are looking rather blowsy, doncha know. But there are fresh young buds opening each day to keep the dance hall open.



And Joining them in the Dance are the Poppies that came surreptitiously from the Lost Garden, hidden amongst a peony bush, or in the Shasta Daisies. They have multiplied all through the garden, and promise a gay show.

The seeds for these poppies came from my Sister's garden, and this is
what they looked like the first year we planted them in the Lost Garden.














The one remaining Iris blooming in the garden sighs its last goodbye, as beautiful as all its cousins gone before it.


Beside it the Mock Orange is blooming in delicate splendour, surrounded by one of the ubiquitous hollyhocks!!!!


























When I went out tonight to see how the garden fared all was quiet, except for one small goldfinch supping on Nyger seed, too shy and quick to have his picture taken.

A miniscule patch of volunteer Evening Scented Stock perfumed the night air and beckoned me to linger within its fragrance.

Watching the footage of the catastrophic storm in Calgary last evening, I was taken back in memory to the spectacular summer storms of my childhood in that same country.

From there I reminisced about other fond memories of those summers that I spent in Calgary with grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins, and I recalled a small essay I had written about them thirty-five years ago, when I was taking a workshop in creative writing.


An excerpt......

...........Sometimes at night when I cannot sleep I move in memory through my Grandmothers' houses. Between the two I divided each long summer of my middle childhood. I linger at each room, each corner, each shrine of memory, and gradually the aura of those days secures me as a child in childhood's safe, warm bed. The nasturtiums that grew along the paths at my Town House Grandmother's; the cool damp refuge from the heat of a summer's afternoon under the small back porch where the chickweed grew; the hallowed spot where the beloved cocker spaniel found eternal rest under a constant bed of cosmos. Surely those cosmos lay fresh and sweet even under winter's frosty blanket, which I never saw. To me it was a place of summer; of love and tenderness, among loving, tender, sentimental kin.


I remember the joy of meeting my gentle, white-haired grandfather on his way home, laden with treasures from the ice cream department of the dairy where he worked. It was childhood's enchantment to wait eagerly through the day for his nightly treat, and childhood's awe and delight at the amazing butter sculptures my uncle carved for exhibit at the summer fairs; the three bears in golden, buttery indignation; Cinderella in a shimmering yellow coach.

I remember the mysteries of my maiden auntie's dresser - the creams and perfumes and the lovely oaken chest that held her hopes. And I wonder what became of the filmy pink negligee my mother knitted for her to beguile an errant sweetheart, alas turned fickle.

At my Country Grandmother's I travel through the upstairs bedrooms where all the aunts and uncles grew up in friendly confusion. I remember tea beneath the covers, between the grandparents, early in the morning. And I wonder how many people start the day so delightfully now. And if they do, who brings them their fragrant cup?

I remember the orderly stacks of wood, the pails of cool sweet well water which stood together upon the table in the corner, my grandmother's treacle pudding, the feeling of the prairies in the thirties. Frightening dust storms and gorgeous, splendid displays of lightening such as I have never seen since. I remember catching the enormous, great grasshoppers to milk them of their tobacco; waiting patiently for a curious groundhog to pop up between the noose so carefully laid around his entrance. And I remember turning cartwheels for incredible distances across the prairies, with my cousins.

The memories crowd warmly one upon another, pressing me gently into sleep and sweet forgetfulness of present problems. They lie there, a background to my life, until I once again recall them to mind with pleasure, or until a sudden flash of memory is triggered by a fragment of music, or scent of flowers. The Skaters' Waltz brings a tear, inevitably, - the hundreds of frosty, Sunday afternoons that the band played, the skaters twirled and glided, and the memories gathered softly in the corners of the soul.....................

I think I warned you that this was sentimental kin, and I have inherited the gene! Also, these are memories written thirty five years ago, when I was Mid-life and Menopausal with three teen agers. Life was much more complicated than it is now.

P.S. Here is the House on the Prairie ca 2000.
My Grandfather built this house almost a hundred years ago, and when it was ready to be lived in he sent for my Grandmother and their seven children, who had stayed behind in England. My mind boggles at an ocean voyage at the beginning of the last century, with a family of seven, - and then a long and arduous train trip across Canada to Calgary.

My Town Grandmother followed Grandfather from Ontario with a family of five. Grandfather had taken the oldest son with him to help establish a home in the west.

What brave and sturdy creatures these pioneer Grandmothers were!

Unfolding of a scarlet wonder....

Early Saturday morning I wandered the garden path, watching for new blooms, measuring with my eye the overnight growth of the Shasta's, and noticing with dismay the weeds that appeared to have usurped precious garden space, seemingly full grown in the night hours!

I came across the Oriental poppies, and the little pregnant bud that graced an earlier blog.

Her time had come and I quickly scanned my inner time clock, - did I have time to take pictures before the day began in earnest, - would it be a quick unfolding, or would the poppy be slow to release those silky crinkled petals that now light up the garden with their fiery, scarlet dance.

I have heard the poppy called a "coarse" flower, not long lived, - and I know its significance as a flower of sacrifice and remembrance. But to me its ephemeral beauty can be the epitome of gaiety as it nods and dances in the summer breeze.

Here is what I saw as this particular poppy bud opened its scarlet petals to the morning sky.







































































And all before breakfast!!!

This Afternoon....



I sat quietly in the shade, under the patio umbrella, with my back to the weeds and my eyes contemplating the garden and I was greatly satisfied.

We have not yet reached the days when the air shimmers in the heat, but the afternoon was probably the warmest we have had this year, and even from first thing in the morning the valley was hazy, and the hills blue and shadowed and indistinct.

My purpose was to be a watchful chaperone for the little dog, who, it seems, is seeing less every day. But he still enjoys his twice a day Business trips down the road, and starts off briskly, with tail aloft and with the air of someone who knows where he is going.

I am concerned that he will make a wrong turn as he starts home, and end up at the bottom of the road, where lurks the killer highway. Husband tells me that he relies as much on smell as on sight, and this is probably so, - but I have seen him become quite confused as to where he is, and so I watch and wait. I could go with him, but these old gentlemen value their independence!!

Caspar has been with us for twelve years, - when he came to us as a year old puppy we were still traveling, but now we are homebodies, - all three of us. And we all nap in the afternoon. Even Callie the cat sleeps on my chest, or on Husband's lap. A time to re-charge.

While I sat drowsily waiting for Caspar to return I looked down at my new lime green clogs that I bought for garden wear, and thought wonderingly about how young they make me feel. They make me want to walk the way I did ten years ago, - and sometimes I even accomplish it in these pretty, young shoes.

I wait now for the June Moon to make its entrance ( stage left from behind the Cawston hills) and to flood the valley with its romantic light.

Today when I awoke the words that floated in my head were these, -

Time is of the Essence, Time is of the Essence....

Of Course. Time is of the Essence!!!

When the clock of Life hovers between 11.30 and 11.45 P.M. what else would be "of the essence", and why would one not be in a quandry as to how to spend the last golden "minutes" when there is still half a day's desires to fulfil!!!

What a simple explanation for the options that whirl around my head, - The Simple Life - The Self Disciplined Life - The urge to relax into the Arms and run my stick along the fence....

Many years ago someone very dear to me gave me the poem about the purple dress, the red hat, and the lovely lanes and pathways open to the truly old. It hangs in my loom room. She didn't have the opportunity of growing truly old, but I think of her as I struggle with these choices.

I see the Baby Oldsters who have latched on to the Red Hat syndrome, and wonder if this is a substitute for the Royal Purple or the Eastern Star without the service aspect, or are they truly practising to be old and eccentric and free to ignore the mores and standards. In my mind I do not think they have faced the reality of being Truly Old, or tasted its bitter-sweet pleasures and disappointments. In embracing the freedoms that come with old age it seems they are merely indulging an appealing fancy and reality is yet to cuff them on the head.

Well, that is my opinion anyway.

I am still puzzled about the path I should follow, - perhaps I should take them chronologically, one day after another, and truly confuse people!!!! Monday I shall live the Simple Life, and take the laundry and a scrubbing board to the nearest stream. Tuesday, I shall be self disciplined and orderly, doing everything by precision and in accordance with the clock!

And Wednesday - ah Wednesday - I shall throw my hat into the air, take off my shoes, and walk barefoot in the garden...

Today in the Garden

Pictures caught between gusts of wind.....

Questions, Questions

Is it possible to achieve The Simple Life and still give credence to these questions that beset me??

Be Aware: This is an exercise in Navel Contemplation, and not liable to be of particular interest to the casual reader!



So - what shall I Weave - after I've woven the warp that's already on the Loom??

How does one wean oneself away from the computer and tuck away the projects that lie within its various programs until another day, another time.

Is there a way of allowing discipline to plan my days, rather than this wild, creative, intuitive spirit that moves me to do just exactly what I want to do? At last!!!

Is this what I want - a disciplined life??? How do I balance the satisfaction gained from doing what I am moved to do, with the dissatisfaction that arises as a result of a lack of self discipline?

What about the virtues of the Simple life? The philosophy of Simplicity appeals greatly, but can it be achieved without either inner peace, or adopting a habit of strict self discipline?

Oh, I am fraught with questions tonight!!!

All of them engendered by a frivolous May, - time spent frittering away the leisure hours doing FUN things, - making slideshow/movies, indulging in nostalgic pasttimes, (looking at pictures without any firm intention of cataloguing them....).

Even the garden, - who enjoys bending over, pulling weeds, tending new plants, admiring green growth and budding flowers? I do, - I do!!!

All of these questions arose from a feeling of guilt which engulfed me as I passed by the Loom Room and heard the faint plaintive cry of the neglected warp. Then lo, in the mail was the new issue of Handwoven. Hope lifted me, - perhaps I could find inspiration there that would solve all my problems and get me back on the straight and narrow path of achievement - that path that First Borns are so impelled to follow.

Alas, I found no project that moved me in that direction, - I found a Website for daily knitting that promised a free pattern for exotic Turkish style socks. I found Web Watch and two fabulous sites that promise me hours of enjoyment, reading other people's blogs (on weaving), a site with over 50,000 weaving drafts to set me dreaming, and even the promise of treasures for weavers on YouTube.

I will take my problem to bed with me, and perhaps the night will knit up all my cares and concerns, - or perhaps even weave them into a kaleidoscope of jewelled colours.

Accompanying me in my head will be the poem of Omar Khayyam which touched my awareness of time's swift flight as one grows older (older sounds better than OLD!) which I posted in my last blog.

Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly - and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.




















And underlying it all will be the appeal of the Simple Life......and perhaps I will colour that bird gay and gaudy colours!!

The Darling Buds of May

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date."

- William Shakespeare

The darling buds of May have had their share of rough shakings this year, as the wind blows day and night, - night and day! Even as it was in Shakespeare's time, indeed!

But a stroll in the garden tonight revealed their sturdiness, and finds us on the edge of great and glorious bloom.

The delphinium, the lupine, the coreopsis, the shasta daisies and the peonies, - all in bud, - but the roses are showing faint shades of colour, and are preparing to bust out all over.... I know, I know, - it's June that busts out all over, but somehow I think a few more warm, sunny days will bring the calendar forward and by the first of June the garden will be a riot of colour and bloom.


Here are the Lambs' Ears, soon to be decorated by a mass of small lavender flowerettes.
















And the Oriental Poppy, pregnant with the scarlet beauty of delicate paper thin petals.














The Lupines will soon stretch their cones into salmon pink and purple torches, before the ubiquitous aphids assail them, - which they do every year.....














Already the pretty Prairie Princess Rose bush has had it's first bath with Safer's Soapy Spray to rid it of the dreaded white fly. It would appear that nature has no favourites, but she has endowed the rose bushes with the promise of endearing bloom.














The Philadelphia Orange which No. 3 Son so kindly and carefully transported from the Lost Garden is preparing its fragrant white bloom to delight as one brushes past.














An early Borage, blooming with tiny, heavenly clear blue blossoms, while I frantically thin the thousands of little plants that spring up around its base.














Even the unrepentant Yarrow, which is also being so thoroughly thinned, prepares to blossom and bloom and make its way underground to the next host plant it feels inclined to set up housekeeping with......















The pink climber by the house is gaining on its battle with the gravelly soil and we think it will take to climbing the trellis and fulfil our dreams of a rose covered cottage....















Husband is not too fond of Hollyhocks, but for me the plant evokes many happy memories of childhood, as they grew along the side of the house I grew up in. I do not enclose a picture, as he has not yet noticed the enormity of the buds, and they may blossom and capture his heart before he does.......















The pinks, which intertwine with the silvery grey growth of the artemis will soon lend their spicy fragrance to the evening air.

The lavender is reaching long silvery stalks into the air - the delphinium, reaching even farther, shows blue, pink, lavender and white blossoms about to open. The Coreopsis , the peonies and the Shasta Daisies are still tightly budded, but the weigelias are tentatively opening their carmine and pink blossoms.

There is something quite sexual about May in the garden, - it corresponds to youth, and the sweet discovery of the joys of love It is no wonder it is referred to as the "lusty" month by many of the early English Poets, - perhaps even more directly by the Later Poets? Certainly by the ancient Persians.....

Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly--and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.
- Omar Khayyám

Everything is blooming most recklessly;
if it were voices instead of colors, there would
be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.
- Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters of Rainer Maria Rilke

Spring is God's way of saying,
"One more time!"
- Robert Orben

Nostalgia - a malady that prevents progress on the current picture project; main symptom is a raising of the melancholy level, counteracted by an excess of tender smiles and endearing memories. The condition can be brought on by surrendering to sentimentality OR by a realization that one is getting quite antique, and still the pictures of a lifetime remain in numerous boxes, unsorted, unmarked and in no condition to be left behind when we catch the Express to the next destination.

It may occur to the patient suffering Nostalgia brought on by this last condition that all could be remedied by intensive sorting, marking, scanning, filing, and distribution to those interested.

However, to those of creative bent this sounds like a very mundane and tiresome task. How much more exciting to hand these pictures down in the form of a slide show, a power point presentation, or wait! Why not a movie!!!!

Marvelous idea - but the reality is that to accomplish this creative cure one must still undertake the intensive sorting, the marking, the scanning, the filing before starting on the fun part of this creation. The actual movie, - which I have discovered needs constant revision, editing, and is better tackled in Reels - can also bring on re-occuring attacks of the very condition it is supposed to cure.

So here I am this evening, wallowing in Nostalgia, smiling tenderly at pictures of children and grandchildren, New Year's Eves spent with dear friends, trips, anniversaries, birthday celebrations, even Husband's semi coming around the bend on a snowy day, - pets long gone, and dear ones who we will never see again, - places we will never re-visit, activities which were once so much part of our lives.

Is this a case of the cure being as bad as the malady itself. I ask myself.....

Ah well, if so, it is a pleasant way to while away a few hours, and surely the Express is not leaving all that soon, - there will be other evenings to scan and sort and mark and drift into another attack of blue, blue Nostalgia.

This comment has the Hallmark of Procrastination, but that is another underlying cause of the Nostalgia that now assails us!!!

Sigh.......